The tumor had a name,
a string of syllables the doctor recited like a prayer,
but to me it was just The Thing,
the alien growing inside you,
feeding on you,
replacing you cell by cell
until the woman who was my mother
became a vessel for its hunger.

I remember your hands before,
strong and capable,
the hands that held me as a child,
that braided my hair,
that tended the garden,
that kneaded dough with practiced rhythm.
Now I can only remember them as they were at the end,
clawed and brittle,
blue-veined maps to a country of pain,
too weak to lift a glass of water,
too frail to touch my face without trembling.

The hospital became our second home,
and the smell of it clung to us like a second skin,
the antiseptic tang of failed hope,
the underlying sweetness of decay,
the metallic scent of blood and fear.
It followed us home,
settled in our furniture,
our clothes,
our lungs,
a constant reminder of the battlefield
where we had lost the war.

Your jewelry box sits open on your dresser,
a treasure chest of memories I can no longer bear to look at.
The pearl necklace Dad gave you for your anniversary,
the silver locket with my baby picture inside,
the simple gold band you never took off,
all of it tarnished with the residue of your suffering,
each piece a monument to a life cut short,
to a future stolen.

I find myself going through your closet at night,
running my hands over your clothes,
inh